City of Angels
by laZardo
Summary: Amidst the desolation of an invasion long since passed, in a city no longer free, a soldier struggles on in search of meaning...and his soul. Chapter 4 uploaded.
1. Dawn

_Resistance and its universe are copyrighted to Insomniac Games. This story is strictly a work of fanfiction and will only be posted on different sites at the author's discretion._

* * *

**Autumn 1951  
Somewhere in Central Europe**

I don't know how or why I've survived this long.

A chilly breeze prances across the rooftop where I take my post for the hour. I can effortlessly spot and track the figures patrolling on the street below, though the chill means my aim isn't as steady. I can see the old cathedral looming in the distance, a lonely relic of a fallen era. To its north is an even bigger monolith - swarming with activity as if it were a citadel to itself.

My light-winter uniform is that of a Spanish UED soldier, a Sergeant from its stripes, and its nametag reads "F. Viola." There are dried bloodstains around the collar, but they somehow match the old bricks.

This city belongs to no one. It hasn't belonged to anyone since the Great War. Not to me or anybody living here. Not to the Germans, not the Poles, not even the Russians.

Not even them.

The uniform isn't mine, either. I found "F. Viola's" beheaded corpse near the Polish Post Office a couple of days ago, and I was thankful for what I could get.

I've had the helmet for several months. It's cold, but the gas mask counters the chill. Its warmth comes with the condition of a putrid stench from constant use, and it doesn't protect me from poison gas.

The rifle's been mine since this morning. The sound of its discharge shatters the silence, and the bullet that it heralds plants itself between the two left eyes of the monster below.

A screech from its comrade tells me it's time to move again. Another crack of the rifle and that comrade falls to the ground as well. I breathe a heavy sigh - my last deep, putrid breath for the time being with this gas mask on - as I lean the rifle on the edge and make for the fire exit from whence I came. The rifle is empty anyway. Dead weight.

As I head down the dank staircase toward the ground floor, I remember again how everything seemed to fall apart.

My father was a decorated veteran of the Eastern Front. He was proud of me as a child, but I noticed he was always very bitter about the fact that I was born just after the city was taken from Germany. My mother didn't seem to mind that too much though. Still, he was adamant on signing the family up with the National Socialists, but she managed to convince him not to move us to Bavaria. Or maybe it was the cushy position that the UED offered him in nearby K nigsberg.

The last time I saw him was the day after they broke down the Russian Wall. He said there was something urgent up at headquarters, and then he quickly kissed me and my mother goodbye before dashing into a waiting convoy.

I don't even want to remember the last time I saw my mother.

Even if I had subscribed to the Socialists' far-flung ideas of racial "purity," I probably would have renounced them on the spot when I learned they slaughtered Jew and Aryan with equal voracity.

I can feel the dual pistols quivering in their holsters as I bolt across the street into the lobby of what was once an apartment building. They beg to be buried with the corpse of their former master, but they never object to taking out its colleagues, as long as they are properly fed.

The lobby isn't quiet. I can hear something crawling and skittering, but not in front or around me.

I remember the first time I saw one of the invaders, and I was thankful that it was dead at the time. If it were alive at the time I would have never found enough time to be scared.

Fortunately, now is not that time. As the wall-crawler above me prepares to alert its comrades I draw one of the pistols just a bit and turn it upward so that it fires right into the machinery on its back. I manage to sever a few steam pipes, causing the creature to scream as it starts to overheat. Unfortunately, a cry of pain is more ominous than a call to arms.

With one desperate attack it drops onto me, tripping me forward onto the floor. I manage to keep a grip on the guns and muster the strength to get up, and thankfully the wall-crawler doesn't do the same.

I empty the rest of the pistol cartridge into it before making my way out the back door and into the alleys. A nearby door provides sufficient cover from a squad of invader footsoldiers - not unlike the one I had sniped - that I notice crossing the street at the end of the alley, and they are quickly eluded.

The basement of the building that I enter after this one is my refuge, and I end up trudging into these spartan accomodations, having been wearied out from the earlier impact.

It isn't much. There's a bed, a light, a radio, a couple of tables, and a back room where whatever's left of the food I've stored continues to mold in its cans.

On the table are various blocks of metal forming a small yet crude heap of junk. I had gathered them off the corpses of the invaders over the last few weeks. I have a general idea of exactly what they do, but unless they can keep a human like me cool during the summer heat, the only thing I can do is figure out how to apply them elsewhere.

Human summers, of course, have long since passed, so right now they are just various blocks of metal in a crude heap of junk.

I toss my gas mask and sidearms onto the bed and breathe a silent gasp of relatively untainted air before sitting down on the mattress.

The radio crackles softly. More stories about a heroic American soldier who somehow caused each and every one of the invaders in England to die off by blowing up their angels' tower. News that warrants a sarcastic smirk. It was old news - but real news - that the entire American force was wiped out not too long after landing. No doubt that desperate times called for more passionate and outlandish propaganda.

I doubt it would be long before the radio broadcasts are reduced to the same haunting loop they heard from Russia before they invaded.

As soon as the radio goes silent, I lean back onto the mattress and try to close my eyes.

A couple of hacking coughs rising from my throat reminds me to stop by one of the resistance's city shelters when I wake up for supplies. That is, if there's any resistance left if and when I wake up.

I don't know why I'm still alive anymore, either.

It is when I hear the screeching response of crickets that I realize far too late that I've left my safehouse door just slightly ajar.

I bolt to a nearby wall and grab the flamethrower's nozzle barrel from off the shelf. I fumble just trying to switch on the ignition, wasting precious seconds long since lost.

I finally pull the trigger, unleashing a torrent of fire at the crack under the door where the roaches are flooding in, cutting their advance in half and probably blocking off all the rest.

The flamethrower's nozzle clatters to the floor and the flame goes out as I make one last attempt to lunge for my gas mask, but I am stopped before I even start.

I flail and cringe as the roaches effortlessly swarm up my legs and chest, seeping into my clothing. I close my eyes and clench my jaw shut but they manage to get in through my nose.

As quickly as they get in, my body starts to shut off. My outer extremities - fingers and toes - go almost instantly, followed the limbs they are attached to. My jaw goes limp, letting them inside once again. I land sprawled across the floor within seconds, unable to even retch, scream or cry out from the numbness that engulfs me.

The most horrific part about it all was that my sight died out just after I heard my last breath, though I'll never be sure sure if I just blacked out or the roaches bit off the nerves behind the eyes.

Either way, I am a dead man.

I died alone, and it is a welcome release after so long.

In the darkness I see an angel. It is grotesque and hideous, even more monstrous than any of the creatures I've encountered so far. It hovers close to me and then embraces me with its horrific appendages.

Without uttering a noise it tells me why I've lived as long as I did.

And all at once...it is beautiful.


	2. Interruption

_Resistance and its universe are copyrighted to Insomniac Games. This story is a work of fanfiction, and all original characters are property of the author.

* * *

_

**September 1930**

_"In election news, the SDP-led coalition have boosted their majority in the Reichstag, bolstered by recent economic growth and reforms under the Müller administration. The SDP alone took twice as many seats as the conservative National People's Party. The ultra-nationalist Socialist Worker's Party, an underdog early on in the campaign despite its extremist rhetoric, took no seats after the Harzburger scandal involving prominent Nazis and several DNVP members scuttled both parties' chances for success._

_The SDP-DDP coalition has also managed to wear down the DNVP's presence in the Free City Legislature. This is expected to ease tensions between the Legislature and the ETO, as the DNVP has consistently pushed for closer ties between the city and the German province of East Prussia... "_

"MENSCH! Is there nothing sacred anymore?!"  
"Darling, please, calm down."

"Listen to that rubbish, dear! All it takes is a few bad apples to bring down an entire bushel of good, decent people!"  
"Please, darling, they're just rabble-rousing extremists. Let's not argue-"

"Rabble-rousers just for pointing out what's happened? Maybe it was good that we recovered from the hyperinflation to prosperity...but all at the cost of our identity?"  
"Not this again! Remember when we went to the cinema last month, and they had the newsreel of the Nazis? Those were DRONES!"

"Don't shove military men into that category- we are uniformed and we fight, but we are not DRONES. We are not monstrous vermin in some gigantic beehive."  
"You fought the Russians tooth and nail...you risked your life for your country and the people you loved. I was so afraid to answer the doorbell for fear I would get that telegraph-"

"But we LOST. The way those French-run Treaties castrated our army afterward for this United European Defense malarkey...the Russians might as well leap over that wall they built and run us all down!"

"Mama! Papa! I'm home!"

"Oh! Welcome home! How was your day!"  
"It was nice...why were you arguing with Papa?"  
"It's nothing, dear...he's just worried is all..."  
"Yes, mama..."

"I'm sorry...I know I shouldn't be yelling in front of him. I just him to grow up as someone proud of who he is...and the country he comes from, not just another 'good citizen in this great federation.'"  
"I'm sure our little angel will grow up to be someone special, dear."

* * *

**Autumn 1951  
Somewhere in Central Europe  
**

I gasp for breath as the smell of charred textile causes my eyes to spring open...and gasp again as I realize from my position on the floor that what happened could not possibly have been a dream. I recognize my bunker, still smoky from the flamethrower but I do not know where the hell I am at the moment, hell or otherwise. All I know is that I am hearing things. The language is none I'd heard previously - and through my father I had met people even from Russia - and yet I can understand it as if it were my mother tongue.

"Raid complete. Gather-5-2 Sections 0-9-1-2 and 5-6-6-1 inbound for collection."

I know they are coming to finish me off, or worse, have me converted to their own ranks. I grab onto a table to help me get up...but I only feel as groggy as if I'd woken from a good night's sleep rather than a lengthy coma. It happens to be the table where I had piled up a number of artifacts and implements looted from invaders, and I realize that I can identify each and every one of them and their purpose.

"Checking upper floors now..."

I frantically sweep aside the objects on the table, grabbing a cylinder that is slightly larger than a standard-issue hand grenade. There are several other cylinders like it as well.

"No potentials confirmed. Clearing lower floors."

The cylinder glows a faint yellow, a shade strangely similar to the eyes of the invaders. And for some reason, I remember exactly how it works as I rotate its top cap and plunge the other end into my abdomen. My eyes almost bug out and I gasp as what feels like liquid nitrogen courses through my arteries.

I can hear footsteps coming downstairs toward the slightly-ajar bunker door. I push against the edge of the table to help propel my dizzy steps in the direction of the shelf where I keep my spare weaponry.

I pull a rather large rifle from the bottom shelf. It feels a lot lighter than even the sniper rifle, despite the fact that it appeared to weigh twice as much.

"Hostile! Hosti-"

The "bullets" that burst out of this gun's barrel appear to stick to the door before disappearing through it. Muffled cries of pain and the clattering of weapons and equipment on the stairs follow.

"0-9-1-2 report...section 5-6-6-1 clarify..."

Their panicked "voices" fade, and I am back in my bunker, wearing Sergeant F. Viola's uniform, trying to catch my breath through the acrid odor of the smoke.

Once again, relief escapes my grasp.

The flash that burst out of the rifle barrel suddenly appears through the door before it blazes toward me. I try to sidestep it, and manage to escape. Mostly. The "bullet" sears through my uniform AND the upper layers of skin on my left shoulder, causing me to drop the rifle sending me stumbling toward the wall next to the junk table, screaming in pain.

Yet in what almost seems like reflex, I grab what appears to be a yellow-spotted ball from off the table and lunge back at the door at about the same time that one of the invading soldiers tries to push it open. I can't close the door, as that soldier has already wedged his gun in the doorway, but they can't get in either.

I press one of the yellow circles on the ball and stick it through the gap before recoiling back and pushing against it with all my weight. I wince as the sudden sound of spikes ricocheting off the metal door pierces through my ears...though it is not just sound piercing through whoever waits outside.

After a few seconds, silence returns save for the occasional death gargle from the invaders outside. Not even communication calling for reinforcements, but I decide not to stay for seconds.

I pull out three cartridges for their standard energy rifle, extra ammo for my sidearms, and a couple of yellow "life canisters" that can fit where I would normally have grenades. I pick up the rifle for these respective cartridges off of the footsoldier that tried to push the door open.

I have to tread carefully across the bodies to avoid the spikes that the grenade shot out when it detonated. They stick out of the bodies sprawled across the stairway and the wall - but thankfully, not out of the rifle - as if I am walking through a medieval torture chamber. It almost seems appropriate that I step into the doorway only to see what appear to be ropes coiling and uncoiling before me...before I remember that they are attached to the living "carriers" they use to transport their "potentials" to the centers.

The sun shines off-white through the dull, gray sky, its metallic flawlessness tainted with the jellyfish-like silhouette of the occasional carrier. It is not snowing now, yet even though their weather control machines have made even the summers colder than winter, I feel like it's spring. And it is out on the street that I notice that my seared arm feels as only as if I've bumped it against a door. It aches only slightly when I move it, otherwise it is more than capable of supporting the rifle.

Not that it has anything to fire at right now, as I appear to be completely alone on these streets or at least on the ground.

Many of the buildings still intact have been augmented with extra structures used by invading snipers, but these artificial balconies stand mostly empty. It does not mean that I do not try to avoid them, however, as a figure occasionally bolts across the conduits that cross the streets. Other buildings are mainly used as load-bearing blocks for the massive conduits that run above and below ground to places near and far.

At this point, I am fleeing almost aimlessly. I know I have to head toward help but I do not want to lead the invaders directly to the outposts, and my boots are leaving tracks. Despite the emptiness of the streets, I would not be off to assume the entire city's invader force are now alerted to my actions. And even though I know this city like the back of my hand, I am too engaged in an adrenalin rush to pull up my mental maps.

It isn't long before a structure I lean against to catch my breath gives me focus. It is a large warehouse - a cannery, from the signage, and I can hear machinery running. That is nowhere near a good sign. Industry in this city has all but ground to a halt since the invasion.

I hope for the best-case scenario...that I have happened on an armory where they refuel and rearm the walking tanks that prowl the highways in and out of the city.

The only other scenario I can think of at the moment is that this warehouse is a garage for the much larger walking tanks - the ones that shoot missiles loaded with the roaches that nearly killed me. Either way I could sneak out and lose the armor across the alleyways.

I duck into the cannery and head up a flight of stairs to a balcony where I can oversee the goings-on in the warehouse proper. It is then that my knowledge of the area finally catches up with me, and it fills me with a sense of dread.

It is almost tragically ironic that I have ended up in the very facility that the invaders use to reinforce their ranks - by the conversion of the "potentials" they recover.

There is an aura of utter desolation here, much more so than any other part of the city.

I remember that I have managed to studiously avoid this facility due to its proximity to my bunker. With "potentials" getting ever more scarce across the city, the invaders began shelling further outward from the center rather than brushing inward. The roaches that attacked me might as well have been leftovers or a fresh batch that escaped while they were deconstructing other facilities.

It is due to this avoidance that this is actually the first time that I have actually ever entered this facility.

It has been a long time since the invaders overran Europe. In a city that bore the brunt of their early invasion, the only ones left now are the ones picking the scraps and sinews from the bones, while they reorganize their occupation to cities of higher importance like Warsaw and Konigsberg. They intend to leave nothing - or at least, nothing they believe what few survivors are left to try to reorganize upon.

If I were here but a few months ago I would have felt a greater sense of urgency to escape this place, especially since it would have been busier. Instead I feel more compelled to observe the goings on as I duck behind an old crate and peer below. There seems almost no harm in doing so at this point.

Their laborers - barely altered from their original forms - trudge about in a zombielike fashion, slow, steady and utterly soulless. They shuffle into the room and work on removing the structures piece by piece before marching out in the same funeral pace whence they came. There is a hole in the roof where a carrier would presumably lower the bodies down for conversion.

Compared to the few footsoldiers standing guard over them, the laborers hardly seem like a threat. Not that any of them would be worried about anything other than a desperate, gung-ho survivor with a rusting carbine and messianic delusions.

They still keep one chute fully operational just for people like him.

It is easy to pick the menials off even with a sidearm from a small room's length, but an ambush would leave one with little time to react before they grab their victim and take a hearty bite out of their tender jugular.

I click open my rifle's safety lock. There is another way out that bypasses the guards in this room, at least, and if I could get out without causing too much of a stir.

At least not as much of a stir as the breath I suddenly feel on the back of my head.

I hardly have time to figure out if I've tuned back into their transmissions, let alone pull the trigger when a pair of cold arms suddenly wrap around my neck and torso...

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	3. Baptism

_Resistance and its universe are copyrighted to Insomniac Games. This story is a work of fanfiction, and all original characters are property of the author._

**Berlin  
August 1936**  
_...the Summer Olympics welcomes new contenders to the world stage, despite an official boycott by Russia. The flag of the Philippine Republic flew proudly atop the gold medal podium today as Edmundo Trinidad took first place in the 100 meter backstroke. This is the Philippine Islands' first games after being granted independence earlier this year, having been a U.S. protectorate since the crisis with Spain in 1898._

_American runner Jesse Owens has firmly established himself as a crowd favorite after taking the gold medal in the 200m Sprint, his third in the Games so far. The African-American Owens, nicknamed the "Buckeye Bullet" back home, earned rapturous applause after easily outsprinting compatriot Matthew Robinson and Holland's Tinus Osendarp. He is expected to take part in the 4x100 medley tomorrow to try for a record fourth gold medal. Amidst a heated rivalry between American and German athletes in these events, Owens also received praise for his friendship with Germany's Luz Long, who is reported to have given him advice in succeeding in the broad jump event..._

"There was no chance in hell that a man like...THAT... could have beaten our finest! It must be that...jungle physique of his. Or drugs! God knows how infested American cities are with those..."  
"Papa, he just ran faster. That's all. The crowd loves him for that."  
"It's more than that, my son. Much more."  
"More than simply running?"  
"It may look 'simple' but these - rather _our_ - athletes represent our country, our identity. It is their patriotic duty to represent our country in these competitions."  
"For medals?"  
"For honor. For our nation's pride and to prove the superiority of its citizens over others in times of peace. Medals are merely decorations, markers of the achievements."  
"Like the ones you wear at the officers' functions?"  
"Yes. But those were earned in blood, and serve to remind us of our continuing fight to preserve all that we hold dear...against assimilation into this so-called union."  
"And what if we lose?"

"What have those traitors been teaching you in school?!...For all this science and technology that fascinates you, the one thing that has held true about all society is that the strongest will always win in the end. That it is those who exert the most effort and force to defend what they've gained."  
"I...I guess..."  
"Those brats are picking on you in school again, aren't they?"

"Hmph. It's all right. I know one of the boxing trainers here from my unit, he lives across the river from us back home. I'll ask him to give you some lessons as soon as we get back."  
"But Papa..."  
"It will be for the best. You will not be able to defend your life and your dignity into your adult life unless you start training now."

* * *

**Autumn 1951  
Somewhere in Central Europe**

Before I have a chance to make a move toward the exit of this vile facility I am suddenly grabbed and whisked into a nearby corridor. It happens so suddenly that I drop the rifle I had brought with me.

"We have been waiting for you," my kidnapper whispers to me in Russian, "It is not yet too late to save you."

The thought of being 'saved' in this manner would have been humorously ironic had it not taken place amidst the possibility of a slow, painful mutation into something inhuman. It was hollow solace to know that the one taking me away wasn't one of the invaders.

Or so I thought.

_"Something's wrong."  
"Possible intruder on second floor. Likely two or more, but the sig is too faint. Send 3-200 squad up there to confirm."_

One arm wraps itself firmly around my chest, binding my arms and preventing me from accessing my sidearm while the other clasps over my mouth but not my nose. The stench of old, unwashed and very likely bloodied leather an inch under my nostrils causes my eyes to water, among other incapacitating and disorienting effects similar to those used in chloroform.

The grip is tight enough to ensure that I cannot even squirm as my kidnapper drags me into what was once a manager's office, where several men in dark and tattered uniforms wait. The sight of them ensures that I don't even try.

"This is the one you found, Petrenko?" one of them began. He appeared to be their leader, standing a few inches taller than me and wearing what looked like an officer's uniform with what appeared to be invader skulls around its belt.

"Yes, Captain. He was awakened this morning," my kidnapper replied, "It is good fortune that he brought himself to us." He forced me onto a chair by the office window and pulled out a dagger, holding it close to my throat.

Only the captain seemed to be standing fully upright, his subordinates being hunched to one degree or another. He seemed more like a ringmaster than a commander, his unit backing away as he approached me and looked me over.

After the early days of invasion, stories of them had started floating around the surviving settlements and resistance camps. No longer human, I was told, products of horrific biological experiments that created mutants that retained human form were loyal to the invaders.

"Yes, this one is perfect. Young and of formidable prowess."  
_"3-200 moving to upper facility areas."_

Perhaps there may have been times where I may have caught one of them darting into the shadows...though it may as well have been a wallcrawler trying to avoid detection.

"A slippery one, as well. We spent many nights amongst the crawlers to seek him out."  
_"3-200 reporting. There's a whole squadron up here! Initiate facility lockdown, call in section support!"_  
_"Affirmed. Conversion Facility 371 on alert. 505-East is in transit through the vicinity, will clear them to engage."_

Never before had I encountered one of the Cloven up close, much less Cloven who eyed me with intent. There was a loud stomping by the doorway on the other side of the office, but none of them seemed disturbed by it...as it turned out to be one of their own, landing on the walkway from above. Around his waist was a line of jawbones, clacking ominously as he approached the Captain.

"They are coming! Three squads, maybe a special squad as well."  
"Good. Keep this one here, let him watch and learn."

My kidnapper rotated the chair so that I faced the window overlooking the work area. The window offered a view of the entire work area and the walkways. The footsoldiers were already racing up toward the office...and right into the Cloven assault.

The Cloven wasted no time helping themselves to the facility's occupants. Gunfire from invader weaponry lit up the facility like fireworks, tearing into the Cloven soldiers' uniforms but unable to slow them down.

The footsoldiers were easily overwhelmed as the Cloven seized upon them like phantoms, roaring as bare hands and blades tore the life, weaponry, and substantial portions of their flesh from their limbs. Some of them were even lobbed off the walkways onto the floor before being pounced on once again. The menials had actually tried to escape...limping away only to find themselves hunted down last.

Silence quickly washed over the facility as the battle ended. The machinery had survived unscathed albeit splattered with invader blood. They hummed empty, background ambience to the clattering of footsteps and equipment as the Cloven surveyed the facility for survivors. The battle was over, but the deafening silence heralded a mystery...why did the Cloven suddenly turn on their masters?  
_  
"3-200 eliminated...0-4-84 and 4-5-5-0 eliminated...Facility 371 empty. Is 505-East still inbound?"  
"Estimated time of arrival 30 seconds. Confirm backup in area."_

The soldier who stood guard over me peered over my shoulder and out the viewing window.  
"Hmm. Miskovsky is dead. Thankfully, he did not go to waste."

I tilted my head a little to see where 'Miskovsky' had fallen, and at once was thankful that my own stomach was empty.

Two of the Cloven were busy devouring the corpse, taking mouthful after bloody mouthful of its pale flesh along with the uniform and whatever decor happened to be attached to it. A few others nearby had started decapitating some of the fallen footsoldiers for trophies, ornaments, and dessert. One of them even smeared menial blood on his face and let out a bestial roar that was indistinguishable from the creature he had slain.

I did not wait to even conceive the fate that awaited me, much less ponder why the Cloven had turned on their masters.

I raised my legs and thrust my feet hard against the low wall in front of me...pushing my chair back and into the soldier who guarded me, knocking him off his feet, and his blade-wielding hand away from my neck. Both of us tumbled to the floor, and I scrambled quickly to get back on my feet to draw my sidearms.

"You little pest! You will pay-"  
The Cloven soldier's growl was cut off by an extended burst of ammunition to the upper chest, and the soldier gurgled violently as his life drained from him and collapsed to the ground. The sound of the gunshots quickly gave way to that of approaching footsteps.

I made for the nearest doorway only to skid to a halt as one of them suddenly blocked that exit route. Turning around took enough time for two others - as well as their Captain - to enter through the other side.

"Restrain him!"

I picked one of the soldiers and immediately drew both pistols to him...but the one behind me had already started his move, grabbing one arm, than both. My legs continued on for a pace or two before they swung up into the air to meet the soldier I had intended to kill. That soldier grabbed them and the two pinned me to the ground by my limbs, disarming me.

"Do you hear the blood? It is calling us. There is no running from your destiny," their Captain said in a deathly serious tone as he approached and bent over me, pulling out a syringe. "It is time to make an example of you."

At this point, desperate survival instinct seemed to drown out the feral growls and snarls emanating from my own lungs as the Captain took a side glance to his fallen comrade.

"Hmph. Petrenko shall not go to waste. I can only hope the same for you."  
"Go to hell, you-"

When the roaches had invaded my bunker I could only recall the visceral sensation of them swarming into my gut. As he plunged the syringe into my neck, it felt as if they had also laid eggs inside my blood vessels that were now hatching. The whole world seemed to go red as I could feel myself boiling in my own uniform.

"We are all in hell, my son," the Captain added in a hideously reassuring voice. "Soon we will prove ourselves worthy of salvation...but not yet. Now get up."

The entire room was ringing from the effects of their injection...but now I could hear two different sets of voices, loud and clear over a din so intense that my vision blurred.

"There. You should feel much better now."

It was a twisted definition of 'better' that it involved me getting to my hands and knees and then retching my own blood onto the factory floor, though my reddened vision did little to help me distinguish between colors. "Worse" would have entailed waking up with a wider field of vision and a heat stack surgically attached to my spine and shoulder blades.

"Do you hear them now?"  
_Hear what!?_ I thought, hearing both me and my captor's 'voices' in fluent Russian. Yet amidst everything I had endured over the last 12 hours, little seemed surprising apart from the fact that I still had my own life...and human form.  
"The blood is talking to you. It is calling to you."

_My blood has been calling to me...and it will not stop!_  
"Excellent. You will heed its words."  
_What!?_

The Captain grabbed me by the collar and dipped his thumb in the puddle on the floor before pulling me up with little effort.

"You will obey it, and thus will reap your salvation," he continued as he applied his thumb to my forehead, marking it like a child on Ash Wednesday before throwing me rump-first back onto the floor. "Reject it and reap the consequences."

My sidearms lay within my reach, but neither the captain nor his underlings made a move to stop them.

"Pick up your weapons," he ordered, "And get up."

It was an order I followed almost unconsciously, my vision returning to relative normality as I stood up. It was also some kind of unconscious desire that kept me from administering the same treatment to the Captain that I did to 'Petrenko.'

Just as well, I hardly had to lift my arm as the shoulder of one of the underlings near me suddenly exploded.

"SNIPER!" The underlings ducked down out of reflex. One of them went to the office's window to the outside, brandishing a rifle he had looted off an invader corpse. The Captain was unperturbed, instead walking toward me and putting a hand on my shoulder. He was clearly aware of the fact that he was positioned with me obscuring the sniper's view from whatever rooftop he was shooting from.

"It is time for you to earn your bones, young one," he grinned, looking viciously into my eyes, "Go take care of this nuisance. No deviance. We are watching you."

My mouth opened to question him on his betrayal of the invaders...but the Captain silently put his finger to his lips, as if anticipating the question was something I was not ready to have answered. The Captain then pointed silently toward the nearest doorway, not saying another word. His subordinates did not seem astonished at his orders, instead backing away from the window and the sniper's view.

The only thoughts racing through my mind were that of escape. I looked over my shoulder several times racing down the bloodstained hallway, somehow expecting to find a swarm of black-clad warriors in pursuit...only to find myself alone. There was a light at the end of this tunnel, that of the old delivery entrance to the facility at the edge of the garage.

Only one truck remained in a garage that could have fit five of them, and it had been stripped of very much everything save for the chassis and body. Its skeletal remains were a relic of an era made forcibly obsolete. The garage door was wide open, allowing generous amounts of light into the room save for the areas closest to the ceiling.

It seemed appropriate then, as the quiet clacking and grunting emanating from the ceiling was a sign that the wallcrawlers had made this garage into their hive.

_"505-East reporting. Hostile confirmed."_

My body lit up with red dots as I drew my pistols toward the ceiling.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	4. Acquaint

**June 1944**

_The world continues to reel from the shock of the successful American nuclear test in Alaska. President Noah Grace spoke before Congress today, saying the nuclear test justified his country's isolationist policies. He also added that the policies were intended not to show cowardice, but restraint.  
_

_The League of Nations issued a condemnation of the test today supported by the ETO nations and China, expressing fears of sparking an arms race. The Philippines, a major ally of the United States since its independence, voted against it. Japan abstained._

_Meanwhile, an extremely unusual turn of events in the Northwestern parts of Japanese-occupied Manchuria, with unconfirmed reports of Japanese occupation forces fighting alongside Chinese partisans against an enemy described as 'monstrous.' Neither the Chinese nor Japanese governments have issued a response._

"Oh! Counselor Mahler, good afternoon."  
"And to you. You must be very excited for your graduation."  
"Thank you, sir, I've got big plans for my future. The Medical University here has granted me a scholarship and I hope to start this autumn."  
"Speaking of which, I was asked to ask you if you were interested in a career with the United European Defense."  
"The army? No...not interested. I'm not one to leap at the opportunity for guns and glory..."

"Ah, but there's an increasing demand for medical roles. The League of Nations is increasingly sending the UED to...international peacekeeping roles in the Pacific and we need people to help research and treat the diseases we encounter there."

"...Did my father put you up to this- no. He's not the type to endorse anything pan-European."  
"As it happened, yes. Your father was the one that asked me. It seems there's some tension going on on the other side of the Russian Wall and they're likely to reinstate his commission."

"I knew it. He wants me to go into the army with him."  
"You don't seem so enthusiastic about it."  
"He's always been very insistent that I join the military, and it was only because of what happened after the Great War that I didn't end up in the Reichswehr Academy. My mother's been supportive, but only quietly..."  
"Don't worry. I'm sure you'll find a career in the UED very rewarding."

* * *

**Autumn 1951**  
**Somewhere in Central Europe**

"Eliminate him."

The moment the wall-crawler began barking its orders, I dropped to the floor and rolled underneath the old truck under a hail of machine-pistol fire pelting my body.

Blood trickled and soaked into my now-tattered uniform as I seethed and growled from the pain burning across - and into my flesh. My arms were wrapped around my body in some semi-futile attempt to keep me from bleeding out into a dry husk on the dusty concrete floor.

But it was neither my reflexive instinct nor my newfound regenerative powers keeping me alive as much as the cold, almost bureaucratic chatter of the wall-crawlers as they observed my apparent demise.

_Target incapacitated. Estimated bleedout time 120 local seconds._  
_Confirm death status._  
_Target has fatal wounds in several critical areas. Movement is already handicapped. Bleedout is imminent._

I briefly wondered how much solace it would have been to others to know exactly how much time they had left to live before I worked up the strength to withdraw my machine pistols.

_Finish him off. This one is an unknown like the ones inside, it may regenerate._  
_Affirmative. One will be enough._

One of the wall-crawlers quickly drops to the floor, its footclaws making a distinctive clack against the concrete as it draws its pistols. It watches me with its six independently-focusing eyes, and I watch it back through the sights of the machine pistol I'm aiming at it.

I clench my jaw and squint as I pull the trigger, sending the wallcrawler stumbling back in a hail of high-caliber laser bullets before rolling out from under the truck in its direction.

My vision immediately races to the ceiling as I get up, where 505-East's squadron looms ready waiting to avenge their fallen comrade.

_Target is active and mobile!_  
_And still alone for now. Eliminate him, make it quick and clean._

Streaks of bright-red and yellow lights crisscross the room as the gunfight dislodges months of dust gathered on the rotting machinery. The wallcrawlers leap between ceiling, wall, and obstacle to try to catch me behind whatever cover I can find. They can fight in three dimensions, an advantage balanced by the constant chatter between them playing in my mind as if we were training.

I draw my machine pistols against them. Having only two eyes I can only focus on one at a time, but they seem to tug their ends of the laser sights like fish tugging line.

Their more insect-like demeanor shows as soon as they stop. A short burst of fire from the machine-pistols follows the laser sight straight to their targets, and they fall limp to the ground, spasming before going still.

Yet each of their deaths only makes the firefight more intense, with fewer targets to keep track of, they adapt more to hiding tactics.

As silence and dust begin to settle in the garage, I quickly deduce from the lack of 'chatter' - and the bodies in their death throes littering the floor - that I've killed all of them.

Except one.

I hear the clacking of foot-claws on the ground, but the gunfight echoing through the garage has dulled my senses. I turn to face my guess the source of the sound only to be punished for my mistake with a cold metallic prodding at the back of my head.

Out of reflex I put my hands up as the last of 505-East's team presses its machine pistol to the exact point where my spine meets my skull.

"A shame. I thought you would have put up a challenge." 505-East-1 says to me, in a guttural growl that my brain can process into human tongue as well as any interpreter. "Unfortunately, we have more important matters to tend to."

For once, the certainty of death did not unsettle me. After so many brushes with death and fates possibly worse, I had grown impatient as to why I hadn't just gone quietly.

I take what I expect to be my final rusty breath as I loose the grip on one of my machine pistols, letting it fall to the floor.

The wallcrawler's machine pistol suddenly detaches itself from my neck as mine hits the ground. Fire races across the left side of my head as its machine pistol discharges a single burst...another wound to add to the rest.

Rather than fall, I turn again, this time to face my opponent. I can almost immediately feel a tingling, cooling sensation against the side of my head as the wound begins to heal. It is a sensation not aided by the fact that the wall-crawler is on the floor, snarling in pain as it tries to get up.

The creature had apparently fallen from a bullet wound to the gut. A fairly powerful one, to knock it off its feet without it noticing.

The braces around its arms have prevented it from dropping its machine pistol. It quickly draws the other one toward me but can barely switch on the laser sight before a similar sized wound suddenly explodes from its shin.

"Next time." it seethes, as it scurries away from me, limping up a wall and out of an old ventilation shaft. Realizing my opportunity at last I aim my remaining machine pistol up at the vents and pull the trigger.

The gun responds with a solitary click. It is empty.

_"Leave that one. You have done well, but we do not seek that one, yet."_

That does not deter me from aiming it at the Captain, who now looms from the doorway to the garage. He does not wear the bandana around his bloodied face.

He smiles an intimidating grin, having watched the events unfold.

And in that smile there comes a realization so horrifying that my first instinct is to deny it before trying to fight it.

I pick up the machine pistol I dropped and try to fire it at the Captain, only to find it is also empty. Just as well, he does not flinch.

The only 'option' left now was to run, as I swiftly turn tail and bolt outside the giant doorway of the garage into the light of the day.

The Captain does not pursue. He doesn't need to. He can find me wherever and whenever he wants to.

_"All you need to do now is take care of our mutual problem. Then can you return and we shall prosper together."_

I am unable to look back as I race down the driveway and into the street, from frantically rubbing my forehead to try to erase the dried blood that the Captain marked me with before my 'initiation.' I manage clear a few city blocks before fatigue finally catches up with me.

It is not a draining, natural feeling brought on by my injuries. It almost feels as if I were somehow scheduled to endure this after the previous gunfight.

The shattered window of an old storefront invites me to take shelter away from the patrol routes and outposts. It is an invitation I oblige by climbing in and sneaking behind some tall shelves. After putting my empty machine pistols to the side, I remove my upper coat and discard it. It is too tattered to provide its second master with any more protection from the elements or enemy fire.

For once, I have time to think. More specifically, time to accept the Captain's revelation. An apt feeling, given that this building used to be a bookstore. Close to the front, the moisture from the snow slowly decays forever the printed thoughts of authors, philosophers and scholars that have either died or no longer exist as human.

It was easy to ascribe my waking from what was supposed to be my last slumber as a sentient being to chance. But I clearly had not survived this long without a purpose...at least not a purpose apparent to me.

The wounds across my exposed arms and torn undershirt have already healed into faded scars. Only dull throbs remain under the layers of increasingly-pale skin and muscle where the embedded pulse rounds flicker their last.

They served as reminders of my initiation into the ranks of the Cloven, and the more it made sense the less I found my emotions able to cope with it.

They had taught me their skills and handiwork by forcing me to watch their massacre at the facility. Then by luring the wall-crawlers to this facility they set up my first practice, one that I passed with almost top marks. My last task is to eliminate the 'threat' that had saved me from swift death only minutes ago.

The only mystery that remains now is why I am to continue fighting the aliens as before...but I suspect I shall find that out in due time.

I cross my arms tight under my chest and slump forward, trying to hold back tears. I am no longer supposed to preoccupy myself with such superficial matters as self-preservation.

Rather, I should already know how to react when I discover a member of the species I used to be.

"Sergeant... Sergeant, is that you?"

The Captain had intended me to discover their sniper. Instead, such an example had entered the bookstore through the backroom and discovered me.

I turned to face him only to stare into the endless black vortex of the shotgun he aimed at me in return.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED**


End file.
